This last month has been, in a word, insane. March began with my boss on vacation which dumped a lot on my plate at work. After she returned, there were some staffing shake-ups that made us all wonder what was going on there. Then, just when things seem to be settling down, my father has a heart attack.
So that’s where I have been. And now that things are starting to wind down, perhaps there will be some time to do some posting.
So our healthy lunch program has begun, and it is…awkward. I decided that since I couldn’t stop the program, I would just personally avoid it, but that’s pretty much impossible to do because there are always questions from coworkers about who tried the food and who didn’t, who liked it and who didn’t, and the slightly judgmental why that comes along with taking no part in it.
Truthfully, I’m not finding it that hard to deal with, but a year or two ago I would have found it excruciating. I have never been good with eating in public; in fact there was a time when I could barely manage it. I feared, as I suspect many eating-disordered people do, that I was being judged for what I ate, that people were looking at my plate and tallying calories to decide if I was virtuous or a total pig. And in some way this is true; I don’t know a single soul who hasn’t had someone, sometimes a friend, sometimes a relative, other times a total stranger, comment on what they were eating.
For me, these comments definitely left their mark. When I was in high school I went on a field trip with my English class; a couple of my traveling companions were guys I had known for a couple of years. As we sat in the grass in the park enjoying our lunch, one boy, who I was starting to fall for, remarked that my turkey sandwich was the first thing he had ever seen me eat. I (sadly) how proud I felt in that moment (even though they in no way expressed admiration for my food-avoiding skills). They noticed how little I seemed to need food! I was a worthy girl-type human being! I can also remember comment that came from my grandfather, the sweetest man to ever live. He remarked that I seemed to be eating more at dinner one night and I stopped fork in midair and didn’t eat another bite. In retrospect, I can only imagine how bad I made him feel. My grandfather believed in food; happiness for him was taking people out to dinner. Here he was, happy to see me eating, and there I was paralyzed by the voice in my head screaming “PIG!!!!”
Even though I’m a hundred miles away from those moments, I doubt I’ll ever forget them or the feelings they inspired. So having the girl who sits across the room want to know why I didn’t eat a pasty plate of pasta with cardboardy meatballs can be extra unpleasant for me; I still feel a little like I’m being accused of something.
But the more I hear the questions, the more I realize that they aren’t really questioning me; they are questioning themselves. Just the other day we were sitting down to lunch when one of my coworkers passed by on her way to the gym, lamenting the fact that she had to go to the gym instead of eating lunch. It wasn’t that she wanted us all to drop what we were doing and join her on the treadmill, but that she wanted to drop what she was doing and have some diet chicken salad, but she wasn’t allowed. She had no choice (in her mind) but to spend her thirty-minute lunch running at the gym. Now, if she had been psyched about working out during lunch, there wouldn’t even be a need for discussion; she would have been doing what she wanted to. However, the longing look she gave us as she ran out the door told anyone watching exactly how much she wanted to go to the gym.
And it’s this same kind if thinking that fuels questions and comments about food choices. My coworker doesn’t really want to know why I think I’m too good for a diet lunch –she wants to know why she isn’t good enough for a real one. I only wish I knew how to tell her that she is, but somehow I doubt she would believe me.
For almost ten years, I have been living with a secret. Though there are people who know it, they never bring it up, never want to talk about it; even when they heard it for the first time, they had very little to say. It is the kind of thing that needs to be talked about, begs for it in fact, but at the same time it seems to stop all conversation. When I told my former best friend she was stunned and said she needed time to think; the next day she asked me never to bring it up again unless I really needed to. Another friend who shared my secret never wanted to talk about it either. Eventually, I stopped trying to talk about it with anyone.
But this month is Tell Someone Month, and so I decided that now might be a good time to break my silence: I am a cutter.
(Note: I don’t intend for this entry to be especially triggering, but if you feel you are very vulnerable, you might want to stop reading here.)
Wow; that was actually harder than I thought it would be. Truth be told, I never found it easy to call myself a cutter, or a self-injurer, or a self-harmer, or any of that; somehow I never thought my problem was real enough to deserve naming. Though I have had occasional relapses (my last was nearly seven months ago), I have been in recovery for the past three or so years. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I would ever get to a place where that was possible.
I had an accident the summer before my fourteenth birthday that left me with a bum knee and a constant sense of terror. The randomness of what happened terrified me; it might have been the first time I really realized that terrible things could happen that I couldn’t control. Suddenly everything about the world seemed frightening. I had always been shy, but I became crippled by fear of interacting with people (I was also still dealing with a very negative friendship, though I had not yet realized how much it had affected me). I also became terrified of injury and disease for the first time in my life; I was sure every headache was an aneurysm and every occasional flutter of my heart a sign of congestive heart failure. I also hated my body. For awhile, I ate compulsively, but eventually the pendulum swung the other way and I lived on one tiny meal a day.
It was right around Memorial Day that I injured myself for the first time. I don’t remember much about it; the only thing that sticks in my mind was that I had just had a fight with my parents. By the next year though, I was harming myself several times a week; sometimes it was almost daily. To this day, I’m not 100% sure what my reasons were for doing it. My best guess is simply that I was loaded with a lot of destructive feelings and I had no constructive way to release them; I didn’t feel close enough to most people to confide in them. I also was a stereotypical “good girl” type; I didn’t engage in any other after-school-special behavior. I didn’t smoke or drink. I didn’t sneak out to go to parties. I didn’t cut school. I was too insecure to consider sleeping around. I was the girl who got good grades and was home every, single, night of the week. Occasionally I went out with friends, but that was it. And when you’re sixteen and everything about the world frightens you so that you don’t even feel safe in your own mind, when you hate yourself and expect everyone else to hate you too, and you’re carrying a little more baggage than you can handle…something has to break. For me, harming myself was sort of a way to reign in the madness.
I wish I could tell you how I got over it, but I’m not sure exactly how it happened. Things changed. I changed. Just a few years ago, I was convinced that I was mentally ill…and maybe I was. The smart thing for me to do would have probably been to see a therapist, but I was afraid. Though I was more than willing to admit something was wrong with me, indeed I had a list of different diagnoses in my head whose criteria I felt I fit in one way or another, going to therapy was too proactive for me; the only way I could recover was to take it so slowly that I barely noticed it happening.
Often, a person who is totally unfamiliar with the concept of self-harm will look at it as a problem in and of itself, and it is for a number of reasons, but in most every case it is just a symptom of a larger problem. I was lucky; I got away from the dark cloud that followed me everywhere. I am no longer crippled by fears and insecurities. And I learned other ways to cope with stress and emotional pain. In the past three years any time I have given in to the urge to self-injure, it has felt empty and mostly pointless, kind of like calling up an old friend who you don’t really like anymore.
I thought that once self-harm was no longer a part of my everyday life anymore, there would be no need to tell this story to anyone. My scars are hidden from public view, and in fact they have mostly faded; there is no reason the truth can not go with them. Except that my truth may matter to someone else out there.
Self-harm typically goes on in silence, and even when people try to break that silence they might find, as I did, that it isn’t as easy as merely telling someone. The important thing though is to keep talking, keep trying to get the truth out, because creating a space where people can truly be honest about what’s going on in their heads, is the only hope we have of preventing people from harming themselves in the first place.
For anyone out there who would like more information some excellent resources can be found at Secret Shame, Selfinjury.org, and LifeSigns.
Carnie Wilson’s is the first weight loss surgery I can really remember hearing about. I was about fourteen when she had it and knee deep in self-hatred. I remember feeling so jealous that she had the chance to do something that was “guaranteed” to work when I was stuck trying to skip meals without my parents noticing.
But, unsurprisingly, that guarantee wasn’t worth all that much and now Ms. Wilson has put some weight back on and she recently sat down with OK Magazine to produce one of the most disturbing interviews I’ve read in awhile.
Some highlights…
OK: How are you feeling?
Carnie: I’ve hit rock bottom with my weight. Everyone can see that I’m bigger, but I cannot hibernate. I’ve never lied or been dishonest about what’s going on in my life. Even all these years later, having had such a great weight-loss story, being back in this place is so familiar. And it hurts. I don’t want to feel this way anymore. It doesn’t feel good when you have to struggle to get your pants on.
(Emphasis mine.)
I agree, it doesn’t, but, not to have a state-the-obvious contest or anything, might she feel better right away if she bought pants that fit instead of torturing herself trying to squeeze into her old ones?
OK: How did you react to the recent pictures of yourself on celebrity Web site TMZ.com?
Carnie: I actually thought my face looked pretty. Sometimes I get mad and think, “Why do the paparazzi follow me?” And then I thought, “I don’t feel mad. I feel determined.” Somebody is struggling just the way I am. They’ve gained some weight back; they’re reverting to some old habits. They need a catalyst. Why do I have to be scrutinized for every pound? The truth is, I just want to be a good mom. I want to be healthy and not revert to food when I feel anxiety.
(Again, emphasis mine.)
Carnie asks an excellent question here: Why should she be scrutinized for every pound? Why should anyone? There seems to be a glimmer of understanding here that she is not defined by her weight, but at the same time she thinks that the pressure to be thin will help her to lose weight. Guess she hasn’t seen the news recently.
OK: What was your biggest diet downfall before gastric bypass surgery?
Carnie: Doughnuts. You don’t get to 300 pounds by eating diet pie. Ice cream. I would go through McDonalds drive-throughs and have a Big Mac, Super Size fries, a 20-piece Chicken McNuggets, a pie and a shake. That would be one meal for me — horrid! Now, if I start my morning out with a piece of toast, I’m doomed for the day. It’s like, give me carbs! Surgery or no surgery, I’ve gotten to know who I am with food and how my body reacts.
If I had to highlight something there, it would have been the whole quote. It included every, single, what-fat-people-eat stereotype you can think of from doughnuts to consuming half the items on the McDonald’s value menu in one sitting, and obviously she paints this kind of behavior in a negative light. However, eating a piece of toast? Also bad! No eating at all! That solves everything! *rolls eyes*
OK: What was life like after the surgery?
Carnie: In 2003, I was drinking heavily. Maybe I couldn’t handle feeling that great. I remember driving down Coldwater Canyon [in California] and thinking I could just turn this wheel and drive right off a cliff. In 2004, I reached a bad low and stopped drinking cold turkey. Thirteen days before I got pregnant, I got sober.
She felt so good, she started binge-drinking and thinking about suicide? It’s a good thing I didn’t actually try to get this surgery when I was fourteen; I don’t think I could’ve handled being that happy.
OK: Any regrets about having the gastric bypass?
Carnie: No, it was the best thing I ever did. If I didn’t have the surgery, I’d probably be dead My liver was enlarged; it was toxic. I had sleep apnea — I was waking up choking 10 times a night. My cholesterol and blood pressure were high. I was pre-diabetic and had circulation problems, slipped disks in my back, acne and chronic headaches. The surgery taught me to be accountable for what I put in my mouth. The truth is that the weight loss happened so fast that I couldn’t absorb it. Everyone was watching and there was so much pressure.
Because teh fat, unlike binge-drinking, makes your liver toxic. Not to mention that all the research on the subject says that fat is the most deadly thing there is. And it causes acne! And headaches!
And finally…
OK: Have you thought about just accepting yourself as a plus-sized woman?
Carnie: I don’t think I’m going to be healthy at this weight for long. I feel those extra 50 pounds. Plus, I’ve got a closet full of clothes that are size 8 that I would like to get back into again.
Obviously the answer to that question is no, but I especially like how she doesn’t address it directly. To me, lusting after a closet full of size-eights doesn’t sound as healthy as embracing the size sixteen body she already has, but who am I kidding? That’s crazy talk.
Two weeks ago, I adopted a dog. She is a lovely little girl who enjoys sleeping, eating, and long walks around the neighborhood. She is smart, friendly, and housebroken. My whole extended family is smitten with her, and I certainly could not love her more.
However, from the moment I got her home my Dad, who sometimes watches her during the day, has worried that she might get fat.
When we got her she was on the thin side, probably because she doesn’t care for dry food (and that’s what the shelter was giving her). Since she’s joined my family though, she eats like a champ. She eats according to the feeding guidelines, and though she gets a good amount of treats, she also gets pleanty of exercise. The vet did not seem concerned about her weight; hell, you can easily feel her ribs.
Yet my father has brought up the what-if-she-gains-too-much-weight scenario multiple times. I’ve tried to stay away from the topic, because quite frankly, I’m not ready to get into an argument with my father over HAES for dogs or the idea that perhaps she might not been predisposed to fat in spite of the fact that she is a food vacuum.
I know that my dad really isn’t trying to be a jerk about it, but it really is getting on my last nerve and it makes me wonder exactly what is really bothering him. My father is a heavy guy, and has been as long as I’ve been alive, but every now and then he seems to feel his weight crosses a magical line and becomes unacceptable. He starts talking about how he has to “lay off the cookies” and he reminisces about the days when he used to walk everywhere. After awhile though, the talk stops until another unknown phenomenon causes him to start up again.
And it sounds a little crazy, but I think he might be projecting his issues on the dog. She looks less scrawny then when I first got her, much more like a healthy, lively, dog, but in his mind she seems to be just one MilkBone away from unacceptably big. And it makes me really sad for him, because while I know he will never stop loving her no matter what she looks like, it makes me wonder what he thinks of himself.
Sometimes it seems like no one is safe.
This morning I weighed myself and found that I was three pounds above what I thought my set point would be. I didn’t freak out. I didn’t skip breakfast. I didn’t run myself ragged on the treadmill. But I did feel just a little disappointed.
And I hate that I did. I want to be okay with the number on the scale. I want to be so okay with it that I don’t even bother to check it. The problem is that I still can’t shake the idea that there is a certain point where, for me, weight gain will cease to be acceptable. At my highest weight, I wasn’t treating my body well. I ate mostly junk food, and since I was always about to start another diet, I often binged because I believed every time I did it would truly be the last time. And I never exercised. When I decided to give up my dieting and disordered eating, I knew I would probably gain some weight and I accepted that. Now though…now I’m only 25 pounds away from my highest weight and I’m afraid that I might end up back there, and as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t want to.
I don’t have very many good memories from that time in my life; I was anxious, unsure, and I hated myself. I know in reality that those things were not caused by my weight, on some level I think I knew that back then, but it was so much easier to blame my fat hips than to face my real problems. And even though I’ve grown so much since then, somehow, looking at the scale, I feel as though I’m just 25 pounds away from being that same scared, self-loathing, little girl.
Logic tells me that I’m wrong, that those things had nothing to do with my body. At my heaviest I imagined that a size 14 would be all I would need to be totally content with myself and with my life, but the truth was that I hated myself just as much once I got there. I never enjoyed that size 14 body; I called it hideous and disgusting on an hourly basis. If anything, I’m happier with myself and my life now at a size 18, than I’ve ever been in my life. But somehow it still feels unacceptable to go back.
I know that this is all part of the struggle and that I will eventually get to a place where I feel secure enough to know that all the things I love won’t slip away if I have to go up a jeans size, but until then? How do you trust in something you can’t even imagine?
Someone found my blog today using this as the search term, and I just wanted to make a little post and say, whoever you are, if you are still reading this, please don’t. I won’t insult you with platitudes about life, but I will say that it is worth living.
Please reach out to someone, whether that person is a trusted friend or family member or a helpline such as 1-800-SUICIDE; they are out there and they want to help. It’s cliche to say this, but it is so true: suicide is a permenant solution to a temporary problem.
I wish you all the health and happiness in the world. You will be in my thoughts.
And as an aside, anyone who finds this post at some later date by googling it, the same things apply to you too.
In the past few months I’ve read a lot of horror stories about people whose offices joined the cult of Weight Watchers or started their own version of The Biggest Loser, and I’ve silently thanked God that my office was too disinterested in group activities to ever launch such a thing. I can only imagine that the pressure to join would be enormous, and it probably makes work a very unpleasant place to be for those who have openly snubbed the idea. I was never sure how I would handle that kind of thing.
Then yesterday my boss announced that he was considering signing us up with a service that would provide us with a healthy lunch every day. From a company whose primary function is to produce meals for dieters.
On the surface, this might seem like a kind gesture, and I suppose in a way it is. We’re a small company and the perks are not what they would be if we worked in a larger firm, so it’s nice that we’re trying to do something for the employees, however the origin of the meals makes me wonder what exactly we are trying to do.
For you see, without giving away too much about the company, I work for a publisher that works heavily with diet and fitness books. Thankfully, this isn’t my area (I work in an off-shoot company dealing with other matters), so I don’t have to deal with it on a daily basis, but the idea that we should live by the rules of our products kind of hovers in the background; in fact, as my boss made this annoucement he espoused the virtues of dieting. So while you could look at this offer of a free lunch as nothing more than a kind gesture, given our parentage and the fact that the healthy meal came with a sticker attached boasting that it only contained 250 calories…it seems that this grilled chicken with lemon sauce and spinach comes with a heaping, cold, dish of morality.
Because if you choose to bring or buy your own lunch, you are saying that, in some way, what is provided is not enough for you. And while for some people I’m sure that might not be a big deal, for me the implications are tremendous. Coming off a lifetime of not trusting my body to tell me what it needs, a thing like this looks like another little message that we are all wrong. Personally, I can not survive on a 250 calorie lunch; I’ve tried that for most of my life and it left me tired and cranky. But this nicely packaged little box tells me that, in fact, this is really all I need and holds up my participating coworkers as proof, and this sends a message, no matter how subtle, that if you aren’t satisfied with this prepared “healthy” meal, than you are doing something unhealthy. And my boss already feels it is part of his job to promote the health of his employees…aren’t we on a slippery slope to even more involvement in our personal lives? Today our lunches, tomorrow our choice of birth control?
It’s probably not going to be that serious, at least I hope it isn’t, but things like this always get me to thinking. I’m big on personal freedom. I get nervous when I feel like parts of it are being taken away, and this is often how it begins; give someone a little say in how you live your life, and chances are they are only going to want more. And in today’s work climate, where employers are given the impression that they have the right to manipulate their employees lives for their benefit and employees are often told they should deal because they are lucky to have a job, giving even an inch seems like a mile.
There’s been lots of talk around the fatosphere in the past couple of days about what you would tell your fourteen-year-old self if you had the chance. Though I left a brief comment at Shapely Prose about it, I couldn’t resist expanding it into a post of it’s own.
Dear Fourteen-year-old Jae,
–Right now you’re pretty miserable, and I’m sorry to say you’re going to be miserable for another few years. It has nothing to do with you; you just weren’t cut out for high school nonsense. The important thing to keep in mind is that it isn’t going to last forever. In college the clouds will start to break and by the time you’re in your twenties you will be a much more together woman. Just know that you’re not crazy; you’re just different in an awesome sort of way.
–You won’t speak to D again after this year, thank God, but it’s only then that you will start to deal with what she did to you. You know that it isn’t your fault. She’s a sick person and though she will get away with torturing you for a big chunk of your life, she does not win.
–There’s going to be a day in a few years when your sister will disappear for a few hours and no one will be able to find her. She’s okay, but she is up to no good. Don’t let the subject drop.
–Speaking of letting things drop, don’t let your best friend talk you out of telling her mother about her anorexia. She’s never going to have a healthy relationship with food or her body, and she’s going to develop bulimia later on. You can’t save her, you really can’t, but this is the best chance she has.
–Stop dabbling in your own eating disorders. It won’t make you thin; it will just make you sick and depressed. Instead go and buy a book on intuitive eating, and don’t be afraid to exercise; you’ll like it and I promise, you won’t hurt yourself.
–Guys are not the yardstick by which you should measure your self worth; it really doesn’t matter how many boys you kiss or how old you are when you first have sex. A boyfriend is not the magical pill which cures all insecurities, so you’re really not going to be “broken” until you find one because you aren’t broken to begin with.
–Let’s repeat that: You are not broken.
–While we’re talking about boys…you’ll meet a special one at twenty, but he isn’t ready for you yet and he may never be, but you will be awesome friends. Don’t believe the lies in your head that tell you he doesn’t love you because you aren’t good enough. You’ll meet another one later that year…don’t run away because you’re scared. You’ll always regret it if you do and you’ll always wish you had another chance.
–Do an internship in college. I know it’s going to mean you’ll have to quit your job and/or work your ass off, but it will be worth it.
–Dad has bigger problems than you know. I won’t tell you what they are, you’ll only be tempted to try and fix them and you can’t, but know that he doesn’t hate you; he just doesn’t really know how to love you. Show him you love him and try and get mom to talk him into getting help.
–Grandma is going to die in just three years. You’ll know it’s coming, but it won’t make you miss her any less. Take pictures with her. Spend all the time you can with her. Do the same for grandpa. You’ll have him for another six years, but it will go by in a flash.
–You and L will stop being friends in about a year and a half, but you’ll find your way back together. It’s probably necessarry for you to do this, but she isn’t healthy for you. You’ll love her inspite of the fucked up things she does, but until she works out her issues the friendship isn’t going to work well, and it will fall apart again.
–The most important thing to remember: you are a worthwhile human being. When others try to treat you as less than, don’t let them get away with it, but even more importantly don’t let yourself get away with it either.
Every now and then, I wonder if I should start dating. In my life I’ve had a few romantic entanglements, but certainly nothing like you’d see in the movies…unless the movies you go to feature mostly awkward twosomes who end their dates with a handshake, and I enjoy the tingly feeling that comes along with a crush and the shameless flirting and the blushing like a twelve-year-old, but for a multitude of reasons relationships and I remain mostly at odds. Sure, I get a little lonely every now and then. I browse dating sites or chit-chat with the cute, curly-haired guy who works in the building next door, and I wonder if I’m not missing out on something.
Because honestly, I spent most of my teenage years obsessing over the idea of a Boyfriend, someone who would swoop into my life and erase my own personal drama and make me feel normal. He would not just provide love and support, but he’d fix all my problems: I would not only be comfortable with my body, but once he was around it would transform into the kind of body I fantasized about. He would make me confident and out-going. He would make it so I never had another sad, empty moment so long as I lived.
And then I grew up. I realized that a partner is not the magic cure-all for life’s miseries. It’s someone to share your life with, the miseries and the joys, the movies and the concerts, the take-out and the funny stories. It’s someone to take out the garbage because they know you hate doing it. It’s someone to run out and get you Nyquil when you’ve got the flu. It’s someone who is going to forgive you for the nasty, sarcastic things you say when you’re fighting. It’s someone who is going to expect the same in return from you. It’s someone who you actually won’t mind returning the favor for. It something pretty special to find that person, and something that seems worth waiting for.
Apparently though, according to Lori Gottlieb, I’ve got it wrong again. For those of you playing the home game who can’t stomach the idea of finishing the article I’ll sum it up for you: Ladies, especially those over 30 (but you gals in your 20’s should probably pay attention too), settle and settle now. Find the nearest man you can and marry him, even if he bores you (because married people don’t talk anyway) or he repulses you (because we all know unless the little woman is ovulating, there is no sex inside marriage) or you suspect he’s gay, because if you don’t you will die old and alone, and you’ll be sorry. And if you don’t already know that you’ll be sorry you are in denial or a great big Pinocchio.
When I read this my head nearly exploded, not just because it’s utter bullshit, but because it is utter bullshit that could seriously push a gal on the brink over the edge*. Like I said, I’m single and while I don’t love it, I don’t hate it either. I am genuinely happy. I have great friends and a great family. I love my apartment, especially now that the decorating thing is finally coming together. I have a job that well…that’s probably the one area marked “needs improvement,” but even at that, it isn’t a bad situation; I’ve got great friends there and it leaves me with a lot of free-time. For the first time in my life, I actually working on not hating the holy hell out of my body, so sometimes I even feel a little confident. And even when I don’t, I’m finally not a neurotic teenager, so I’ve learned how to handle it. I wouldn’t trade all this for a boyfriend, capital B or otherwise.
But a couple of years ago I didn’t think any of this was possible if I didn’t have a steady Friday night date, and I’m sure I wasn’t alone. In fact, a former friend of mine has spent the past four years chasing after a guy who was a few grand gestures and not much else because she doesn’t want to be alone, and she’s been nothing but miserable the entire time. She’s tried settling down with other guys, something which I imagine Gottlieb would encourage her to try, but it never lasts because she still feels empty. The hole that’s inside her, that’s inside so many people, will never be filled by another human being. The only prayer anyone ever has of filling it is to do it themselves.
That’s what I’m trying to do, and so far it’s working a lot better than any half-hearted relationship. I’m exploring my hobbies. I’m having fun nights out with friends. I’m enjoying sleeping in the middle of the bed and not sharing the covers. I’m doing all my own home improvement and feeling like a kick-ass woman. In short, I’m living my life. And if that special someone wanders in…fantastic. But if not, I probably will be too busy planning a trip with my best friend to notice.
*Nevermind the fact that this Gottlieb seems oblivious to the fact that there are a great many women out there who never, ever want children; that’s an insulting assumption for another post. I suppose she would say that they, like women who claim not to care about being married, are in denial.
